Without A Dark Lord
by Copper Kestrel
Summary: Very AU. In a universe where Voldemort never exists, life does not follow along the same paths. For the Marauders, the paths they travel down will be entirely different from the ones we know.
1. Chapter 1: Peter

**Author's Note:** Well, this is the first thing I've ever put out to public view, so I'm rather nervous about it. I'd really appreciate comments and feedback, so if you would, I'll be forever grateful. This little story (which I will admit is a little strange) will have four chapters, which are already written, so they only need to be edited before I post them. Thus, you can expect regualr updates!

**Disclaimer:** The universe, characters, and all content associated with Harry Potter do not belong to me. I make no profit from this fanfiction beyond personal gratification.

**Without A Dark Lord**

**Chapter One: Peter**

"Why would I want to be friends with you?" The words are sneered across the hallway. "You're a terrified little kid who'd probably jump at his own shadow.

The smaller figure flinches back, and nods. "I'm sorry, I just wondered…"

He is left talking to an empty hallway as the black-haired boy turns and leaves.

The other backs up until he hits the wall, then slides down it, sighing. Why had he ever thought Sirius Black would be his friend? Just because the boy also seemed an outcast in his own house…

Loneliness is the sound of footsteps moving away, a guttering torch, and silence.

***

"Do we have to spend all our time in here?"

The only answer is a nod from the figure deeply engrossed in a book.

Peter rolls a piece of parchment up into a ball, and flicks it across the table. The reader doesn't even glance up. Peter rollshis eyes. Much as he liked Remus Lupin, he wished they didn't have to spend quite so much time in the library…

Staring down at his half-written essay he re-inks his quill. "Which book did you recommend for question three?"

Said book is shoved across the table without a word. Peter flicks through it, finds the relevant passages, and begins to write.

Friendship is the sound of pages turning, quills scratching, and silence.

***

"You're a what?!" He shrieks the words out, staring in horror at the boy who sits across from him, eyes hidden by a soft fringe as he stares resolutely at his hands.

"You mean you're really a…a…" He can't say the word, can't spit the term from his lips. Remus nods jerkily, once.

Peter flinches back. "I don't want you here. Go. Go. Go"

Remus nods that horrible little jerky nod again, like he'd expected as much, and leaves. Peter pretends not to hear the half-muffled sob that escapes the boy – _werewolf _– as he vanishes up to the dormitory.

Cruelty is the sound of retreating sobs, a crackling fire, and silence.

***

He watches, wistfully, as the group of boys fling coloured lights at each other with quick twists of their wands. The spins and spirals of red, green, yellow, blue are accompanied by raucous shouts and howls of laughter.

Peter turnes away. He doesn't want to watch James Potter and his group – Caradoc Dearborn, Simon Trent and the rest of that exuberant, laughing bunch. He tells himself it is because he has better things to do with his time.

Of course it isn't because he wishes he had friends. And it really isn't because he can see a familiar figure at the other side of the courtyard watching the group with the same wistful look in his eyes.

Isolation is the sound of crackling energy, laughter and silence.

***

He tries, he really does. But the words don't come out right, and his wand gets stuck halfway through the fluid twist-and-jab, and his teacup gives a sharp crack and explodes. Shards fly everywhere.

Peter flinches back, and his Examiner gives him a sympathetic look. "Don't worry, try again, dear." She produces another teacup, and Peter tries, he really, really does.

This time the teacup merely cracks sullenly. His examiner nods. "Well, that's a shame dear. Sometimes things just don't work out, don't worry. Thank you for trying. Good luck on your next exam." She smiles, comfortingly, not knowing that this is probably the exam that has gone best for Peter. His Transfiguration one involved the room having to be evacuated.

He tries to muster up a smile, thinks he fails, and walks to the door. He can sense the grins of the others being examined and ignores them, eyes on the floor. He will not cry. Not until he's out of here.

Failure is the sound of soft sympathies, James Potter's sniggers, and silence.

***

School dropouts never get good jobs, but Peter is pleased with the one he has. He likes the fact that he doesn't have to speak to people, the fact that the animals like him when he feeds them or grooms them. They never want anything more complicated. They don't care if he has to think carefully about his words, or if he breaks things when attempting simple spells.

No, at the Emporium, it was quiet.

Until James Potter enters the door, and asks for some more Doxy repellent. His eyes widen as they alight on Peter. "Hey, weren't you at Hogwarts?" His voice is loud in the normal hallowed quiet, his gaze far too confident as it flicks across Peter. Peter nods, mutely. James Potter grins. "Thought so."

He chats as Peter gets him the potion, and didn't seem fazed by Peter's often silent answers. He leaves with a cheerful, 'See you around then!" The room goes dull as he exits, the echoes louder, the silence descending more thickly.

He didn't remember. Peter isn't even memorable as a failure.

His life is the sound of a door closing, the flutter of locusts, and silence.


	2. Chapter 2: Remus

**Author's Note:** And here's chapter two. Again, reviews are greatly appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Without a Dark Lord**

**Chapter Two: Remus  
**

"Can I sit here?" The question is tentative, the answer surprising.

Remus hadn't been expecting the blond boy to look up, look astonished, and gather his things together in a hurry. "Of course, of course!"

He sits, and is surprised further by the enthusiasm of the boy sitting next to him. He talks almost constantly, and in his silences eagerly listens to whatever Remus says, offering him chocolate, inviting him to his house for Christmas, admiring Remus' bag…

Friendship is the smell of cocoa, worn leather, and desperation.

***

"What happened to the dream-team, Lupin? You finally get fed up with Pathettigrew?" The words are mocking, and soon lost in laughter.

Remus turns away, heading for the stairs, bag clutched to his chest. It hadn't taken long for everyone to notice that he and Peter spent no more time together; that they went further than that, Peter turning tail every time he saw Remus come, and Remus walking past Peter with head held low.

The laughter followed him, and he quickened his pace, bursting into a run until he was in the safety of his own bed, curtains drawn around him. He pulled his blanket over his lap, opened a book, and started his homework.

Loneliness is the smell of wool, ink and desperation.

***

It is a beautiful night; barely a breath of wind stirs the crystal clear air, daintily lit stars that pale next to the heavy silver globe of the moon above the treetops. Secret giggles float down from the tops of towers, and prefects don't discipline those who slip out for moonlit meanders across the silvered lawns.

In the Shrieking Shack a different atmosphere rains. Wood splinters fly as a chair smashes into a wall, sliding down it to join a shredded cushion. Ruby red liquid dapples the floorboards, feathers delicately dancing above the stains until they are grounded and drowned in the thick blood.

Claws rake the wood as a howl hovers high and feral above the house, a call to a pack that would never be.

Isolation is the smell of mould, dust and desperation.

***

It only took one early moonrise, one single moment of inattention, and Hogwarts no longer had a Matron.

Instead, it had a feasting werewolf, claws wet, and ears pricked in delight to the screams of pain.

This was what the wolf had craved for years, the feel of crunching bones and tearing flesh, the knowledge that as a predator, none surpassed it.

The Whomping Willow bludgeoned the ground unsuccessfully, something deep inside its wooden heart knowing that this was wrong. Branches cracked as it thrashed, never managing to reach the werewolf crouched over its eventually motionless prey.

Cruelty is the smell of sap, night air and desperation.

***

Three paces along the south wall, five along the west wall, three along the north wall, five along the east. Multiply that by three hours of (on average) seven circuits a minute (sixteen times one-hundred-and-eighty times seven equals twenty-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixty paces).

The numbers tick through his head comfortably. If he thinks about it hard enough, the figures cover, with a thin veneer of silken mathematics, the taste of blood and flesh that lingers.

Nothing can remove the sound of the screams, not even when he begins to calculate the weight of rock required to construct Hogwarts.

He sits, head on knees, hands in hair, and feels the tears that hadn't stopped since he'd woken sprawled across half a body.

The execution would be welcome now.

Failure is the smell of salt, stone and desperation.

***

The knife glimmers in a way that steel never can, the normally soft metal honed to a fine edge with intricate spells. The chains are made of the same precious metal used in a way that most jewelers would shudder to imagine.

No gems adorn this silver, no intricate carvings make this knife decorative. It is harsh, functional, used for only one thing.

Remus thinks it should be bloodstained, but the shining blade clearly isn't. As it sweeps down towards him in a glimmering arc designed to precisely pierce his heart, he vaguely registers an almost familiar scent in the crowd, one of chocolate and fear, and thinks that Peter had known, truly, who he was.

He hopes the knife won't hurt too much, hopes that death is easier than life, hopes that --

His life is the smell of metal, blood and desperation.


	3. Chapter 3: Sirius

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the delay in uploading chapter 3, I have been having problems with my Internet. Thanks to Imperial Dragon and deisegirl for the reviews - they're much appreciated!

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Without A Dark Lord**

**Chapter 3: Sirius**

"And you will, of course, be placed in Slytherin. No question about that." The words didn't even bother to ring with certainty – they merely tolled with a foregone conclusion.

The agreeing nod was obedient, if a shade too quick for true compliance. Walburga Black chose to ignore that, for what use was an Heir that didn't display some fire? That slight streak of rebellion – of an independent mind – could only be put to good use.

After all, she'd been thirteen when she started to plot against her parents, and it wouldn't surprise her in the least if her eldest son, who had always been a prodigious boy, didn't get a head start.

Sirius gazed back into his mother's implacable eyes, not guessing at the thoughts that ran silently beneath them. He wondered what would happen if he, by some twist of fate, ended up in Ravenclaw or, worse, Hufflepuff (the other house was not to be mentioned). Would he ever set foot in the house again?

His face, not nearly as practiced as hiding emotions as the elder Black's, flickered for a moment, and he ran a hand nervously down the robe he wore. His mother didn't notice, but then she never noticed anything she did not choose to. He often wondered whether she noticed him at all, or only noticed her Heir.

Isolation is the feel of smooth velvet, silk and emptiness.

***

He gestured, and the flock (or should that be gaggle, given the way they hissed when he told them to) clustered behind him. Turning to favour them with a smirk – that trademark Black expression – he nodded.

"Them. Potter and the rest of his twit-headed bunch." They looked eager, and with another flick of his fingers he unleashed them, strolling behind casually as they did the dirty work.

When the five Gryffindors were hoisted up, he deigned to make an entrance, fingers running along the cool wood of his wand.

He made some cutting remark in response to Potter's splutterings of rage, and his Slytherins laughed on cure. He had them very well trained, after all.

Friendship is the feel of hawthorn, sunlight and emptiness.

***

Leaning back casually in his chair, Sirius couldn't help but wonder whether anyone would ever get their act together. So the Pureblood Houses talked about their hatred of muggles, their distaste for Muggleborns and their disdain of half-bloods, but did they ever do anything? It seemed to Sirius it was all talk. Years of talk, and no result…

He quashed that thought, wondering where it had come from. It wasn't just talk, it was planning. Careful, meticulous planning, which snuck underneath everyone's eyes, which took them all by surprise. It might be his children who acted instead of planned, but that hardly mattered. Things would happen, when they should, how they should.

He wasn't a Gryffindor, after all; he was a Slytherin, and they could lie in wait for centuries. They could be subtle and deadly, and they knew how to bide their time.

With that thought firmly in mind, he turned back to the lackadaisical dinner-table conversation. Talk it might be, but better talk than foolish actions.

Failure is the feel of wine glasses, heavy cutlery and emptiness.

***

From his perch in the windowsill, glass carefully broken with a delicate spell, Sirius wondered how the people below him could be bothered with friends. The gaggles of girls that flopped under trees, consoling each other for failures with boys, Quidditch or studies; the bands of boys who strolled the grass, joking about the upcoming tests, egging each other on to throw rocks at the Squid.

Sirius couldn't see the point.

If any of his group had come to him with a problem in their love-lives, or their failing grades in Charms, they would be greeted with mocking – a mocking that was a far cry from the friendly teasing of the world below. He'd honed his words into glass shards, his syllables into drops of acid, and his fellow Slytherins were hardly spared the sting. They needed to know their place: below him, for he was a Black, and superior to all.

And if, sometimes, he wanted a shoulder to lean on – only for a moment, for a Black required no more – well, he'd only have to return the favour and that would be intolerable. Besides, he didn't really need a shoulder.

Loneliness is the feel of spring breezes, fleeting clouds and emptiness.

***

"Really, Mudblood, does it look like I'm going to care?"

The applicant shakes his head, but manages to summon up the courage to say, "But, Mister Black, I'd been led to believe that you could offer some help? I was hoping –?"

"Shut up," Sirius says, tone lazy but expecting instant obedience. When the silence comes, he twitches his wand towards the door, and the heavy wood draws open with a pointed creak. "Go. I fail to see why this is my problem."

"But – "

"Go. Or you shall leave feet first."

"But sir, my wife!"

Sirius makes to get to his feet, and the other wizard flees, scampering out of the office. Sirius waits until the last sound of frantic footsteps vanishes before he laughs. Why had his father said that being on the Wizengamot was boring? While he agreed that having to listen to all the requests of those who wished to plead for his favour before the official trial were tedious, turning them down could be so very satisfying.

But then there is, of course, the paperwork, and with a slight sigh, Sirius draws the parchment roll of the latest case being brought before them, and begins to read.

Cruelty is the feel of high-quality parchment, a comfortable chair and emptiness.

***

The room is empty, but that is no surprise. Sirius has no people that would want to visit him in his study, no friends to lounge on the leather sofa or make paper planes of the creamy parchment, to then bewitch to soar around the room. His acquaintances, for that is all he has allowed himself – been allowed - to have, see him in the office or perhaps at one of the high society parties that every pureblood family holds. They would never venture here. His wife, too, sees no purpose in coming to this room where Sirius keeps himself.

Thus, the only sounds are his footsteps and his breath as he paces before the wide window. It is at times like this that he wonders why his life is composed of mostly vacant expanses involving him being alone. Sometimes he wishes that some laughter would sparkle through his life, that he could hold a conversation that didn't involve subtle sniping at others.

Admittedly, he almost always enjoys that type of conversation just as much as his conversational partners, enjoying the fizz of power that he has because he is a Black, he is powerful, and he can manipulate with the best of them (even if, sometimes, he wished for the subterfuge to be cast down, wishes that sometimes he could just cast a hex at those he doesn't like instead of subtly ensnaring them in words).

But those are foolish thoughts, and he has better things to be doing with his time then brooding. His wife will be calling him, soon, to sit and eat at their long table made of dark wood, exquisitely fashioned of course. They will talk politely – inanely – about their social circle, and the state of the Wizarding world. They might even have a briefly animated conversation about Muggles and how something should be done about them over the coffee and biscuits that the house elves will serve. Then they will separate to their designated rooms, and entertain themselves in solitary splendour.

Sirius lays a hand on the glass of the window, feeling the warmth from his hand being leached by the cool surface, and looks out at the expansive garden. It being winter, everything is dead and bare earth is the most striking feature. A snowfall would make it look like a Christmas card, but for now, the once lush area simple looks barren.

He shakes his head, and turns back into the room. He has things to do.

His life is the feel of cool glass, lush carpet and emptiness.


	4. Chapter 4: James

**Author's Note: **I found this chapter very difficult to write - James just wouldn't cooperate, so, as ever, I'd love feedback on it. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and added this story to alerts - it's much appreciated, and makes me incredibly happy!

I'm also thinking of extending this AU into some other characters - Severus, Lily and Dumbledore, among others - but that will be a sepearate story, mainly because I'm almost out of senses for this fic, and I don't think I could write many more chapters in this style. So this story ends here - thanks so much for reading, and even more thanks if you review!

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**Without A Dark Lord**

**Chapter 4: James  
**

James bounds over to the Gryffindor table, reveling in the applause that is offered him, and wondering why he was worried. Of course he belongs in Gryffindor: he is brave and strong; he is prepared to stand up for what he believes in, no matter the cost; he is confident and courageous and all that a Gryffindor should be.

He doesn't consider, of course, the reverse side of the coin. He is arrogant, probably far too confident in his own abilities; he looks down upon others who aren't like him; he frequently leaps before he looks, and refuses to take the consequences seriously.

He is a Gryffindor, and he considers only the good of that, instantly looking down upon Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and Slytherins, because they are not Gryffindors. Life is as simple as that, and beautiful in the black and white lines that can so elegantly be drawn.

As he settles down to eat, laughing boisterously and not failing to rib the quiet, pale First Year to his left, he is filled with the glory of himself, the joy of getting into Gryffindor flashing a bright, strident light into his mind, somehow still failing to illuminate the corners of himself that he liked to ignore.

Failure is the sight of roast chicken, gold and red drapes, and emptiness.

***

"What's wrong with Lupin, d'you think?"

Furtive glances – not nearly as sneaky as their owners think – are cast over the Common Room to the boy sitting by himself, several books open in front of him, his own gaze fixed on the parchment upon which he scribes his essay in a neat, tiny hand.

"He's been sick three times since the year began."

"He looks it, too."

"Never joins in properly, either. You see the way he looked at us when we were hexing that Ravenclaw's owl yesterday?"

"Looked down upon us, you mean."

"Yeah."

"Snob."

The judgment is delivered with all the tolerance of eleven year old boys for people slightly different from themselves, people who didn't fit quite their norms of acceptable behavior.

"You know what would be really easy…" James carefully twitches his wand out from under his robes, aims it at Lupin, and releases the inconsequential little spell that they had 'accidentally' scrounged off Hagrid the Tuesday before.

With a soft rush of air, Lupin's ink-bottle collapses over his almost finished essay, and as Lupin gapes in wordless dismay at his ruined work, James and his compatriots dissolve into muffled laughter.

They go up to bed an hour or so later, leaving their prime fireside positions and laughing and jostling up the stairs, no-one sparing a thought for the thin, weary looking boy left behind them at the bottom of the stairs, quill scratching over fresh parchment.

Cruelty is the sight of splashing black ink, bright firelight and emptiness.

***

"She's beautiful, so very beautiful…"

James is rewarded for his musings by several well aimed peas, but takes no notice as he gazes down the table at the latest object of his affections. He could compose poetry to that hair, he is sure, and odes upon odes to the way she tilts her head when she laughs.

"I'm asking her to Hogsmeade. Right now."

Before his friends can laugh themselves silly, refusing to believe that this infatuation is any different from his one the previous week, or the one before that – even though he knows it is, because he's never felt quite this way about anyone before – he is up and striding down the table.

His target looks up as he appears, and an expression somewhere between a frown and a glare creases those delightful features.

"What do you say to going to Hogsmeade next weekend?" James speak, confidence bubbling in his tone, and a smug expression gracing his face.

Five minutes later, as he sits in a lonely seat, abandoned first by Lily, then his friends who had declared that they had no time to help him mope before exiting the Hall, he wonders what it would be like to have friends who actually care about him and his feelings, rather than the fun they can have together.

A moment after that thought surfaces, he drowns it in the pits of his mind, because surely there is no difference between such friends. Why would anyone want to stay friends with someone who was no fun, having to spend all their time worrying about feelings? Foolish, foolish thought.

Friendship is the sight of tangled red hair, retreating backs and emptiness.

***

Leaving Hogwarts is not at all like James expects. Yes, there is the sadness of leaving the place that has been home for the better part of seven years, and, yes, there are the melancholy thoughts prompted by certain statues and trees of past exploits, but at James wanders through the corridors alone, he feels that he missed something in his years here.

Given that he passed most of his NEWTs with flying colours, though, that is a rather silly thought. Academically, he's certainly been a success, despite having done little actual work. He's also certainly enjoyed his time in these halls… they've been fun, filled with laughter and jokes and playing pranks upon anyone (and if some of those edged into cruel? Well, they were still funny).

It is only later, as he waits for a staircase to swing around to greet him, filling in the time by watching Lily Evans moving down an adjacent staircase, in deep conversation with a friend, that he catches a glimpse of what he might have missed.

He settles, later still, leaning against a wall next to a suit of armour that turns after a moment to look at him, creaking disconsolately with the movement. He favours it with a sneer as he comes to the rather depressing conclusion that this is all the company he's going to get for the moment. His housemates have vanished off, split into a few small groups, none of which seemed to involve James. They all seemed to have other people they wanted to spend their last Hogwarts hours with… and none of them were James.

Perhaps, he reflects, it is companionship he managed to miss at Hogwarts. Maybe he'd pranked everyone, even his companions, a few too many times, not hesitating to unleash those tricks which could be termed 'cruel' on anyone from teachers to First Years. He sighs, sinking down onto the floor besides the suit of armour, and amuses himself for the little while left before the train draws in by charming it into a rainbow of colours.

Loneliness is the sight of stone walls, rusting armour, and emptiness.

***

The marriage of Sirius Black and Yvonne Malfoy hadn't been something James had been expecting to be invited to. On reflection, staring at the gilt invitation being delivered to him by a swan – of course the Blacks would be utterly traditional – he realised that, actually, he should have been expecting it. He was beautifully pureblooded, after all, and even if the views of his family and the views of the Blacks differed rather significantly (or, as Sirius himself had put it at a memorable dinner several years ago which James had sat through with grit teeth, 'views which are not identical – but then it is through minor differences that consensus in reached') it would not be at all proper if any pureblood was missed out.

Now, though, he rather wishes that he hadn't been. The reception is, well, not James' scene at all. This subtle sniping is something he has never been good at, and if he has to tell one more person that he couldn't be happier at the melding of the Black and Malfoy bloodlines, he is likely to hex someone.

He circles, moodily, eagerly accepting the proffered flute of champagne from an efficient waiter. Perhaps if he drinks enough alcohol things will start to seem more exciting… but then that's probably not a good idea, either, as no matter how much he really wants to send smoke billowing out from under Arthur Weasley's hair (just think of everyone's faces, and the horrified expression on that girl he was dragging around), it probably wouldn't be the most political gesture.

Instead, James has to settle for politely circling the room, offering the correct compliments at the correct moment in time, never managing to find anyone who either wants to converse at more length with him, or with whom he is prepared to carry a conversation with.

Isolation is the sight of white robes, crystal glasses, and emptiness.

***

Marriages, James decides halfway through the fourth one he attends, are damned depressing businesses. At least, they are for those who aren't yet married, and who find themselves the topic of much speculation at weddings.

So what if his only relationships so far have been brief flings, more than a few ending with the girl leaving, saying bitterly that she should have listened to the talk about James Potter, that what everyone said about him being too cocky to stand for long was entirely true? It hardly matters, does it? He's sure to find some girl, eventually, who accepts how brilliant he is and will be content to stand forever in his shadow. Which isn't boasting, it really isn't. It's entirely the truth, and if everyone fails to realise that – well, they only need to look at his NEWT scores, gained, as he is proud of telling everyone, without an ounce of study!

Shooting a nasty look at the elderly woman who is approaching him with a smile – and utterly ignoring the way she starts in shock, and hastily scurries off to the other side of the buffet table – James heads for the nearest alcoholic drink, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head which attempts to inform that, really, given as he's Apparating, he's probably had enough to drink. Hah, what does his common sense know? He's been drinking enough lately to know exactly where his limits are.

Several glasses of rather fine wine later, he winds up at a small table with a girl several years younger than him, regaling her with some of his finer exploits. He doesn't understand why, after a fair number of these stories, she tries to get up, and so attempts to keep her in her seat with an encouraging hand on her shoulder.

A few moments later, and he is sitting in quiet shock as a glass of wine drips down his face and through his shirt as the girl – who has beautifully rich brown hair – stalks away, muttering about self-important, idiotic, lecherous men who have no respect for anyone, least of all distant relatives. Ignoring the looks of those around him which fluctuate between horrified fascination and amusement, he gets to his own feet, futile attempts to clean himself up a little, and walks off in the opposite direction. It doesn't take him long to find the open bar, and it only take a little longer for him to get utterly, ignominiously drunk.

His life is the sight of dark, deep red wine, badly hidden smirks, and emptiness.


End file.
